The Iliad: Book 21

Now back in their tracks the Trojans fled pell-mell
while Hera spread dense cloud ahead to block their way.

...so at Achilles' charge the Xanthus' swirling currents
choked with a spate of horse and men

The swift runner recognized him at once—
disarmed, no shield, no helmet, no spear left,
he'd scattered all his gear on the bank, sweating,
clambering out of the ford exhausted, knees buckling

I hug your knees—mercy!—spare my life!
I am your suppliant. Prince, you must respect me!

So the illustrious son of Priam begged for life
but only heard a merciless voice in answer

Nothing can save you now—
not even your silver-whirling, mighty-tiding river—
not for all the bulls you've slaughtered to it for years,
the rearing stallions drowned alive in its eddies

The more he vaunted the more the river's anger rose,
churning at heart for a way to halt his rampage

“Who on earth are you? Where do you hail from?—
you with the gall to go against my onslaught.
Pity the ones whose sons stand up to me in war!"

Menacing so
as brilliant Achilles raised the Pelian ash spear
but the fighting Asteropaeus, quick, ambidextrous,
hurled both spears at once

But I, I won't stop killing these overweening Trojans,
not till I've packed them in their walls and tested Hector

Achilles the famous spearman, leaping down from the bluff,
plunged in the river's heart and the river charged against him

But the hero sprang away, far as a hard-flung spear,
swooping fast as the black eagle, the fierce marauder,
both the strongest and swiftest bird that flies the sky

As a farmhand runs a ditch from a dark spring, sluicing
the gushing stream through plants and gardens, swinging
his mattock to knock the clods out down the shoot
and the water rushes on

And no god on high,
none is to blame so much as my dear mother—
how she lied, she beguiled me, she promised me
I'd die beneath the walls of the armored Trojans

It's not your fate to be swallowed by a river:
he'll subside, and soon—you'll see for yourself.

Beat him back, quickly! Deluge all your channels
from all your gushing springs—muster all your torrents—
raise up a tremendous wave, rumbling, booming with timber,
boulders crashing—we'll stop this wild man in his tracks

Neither his strength nor splendid build can save him,
not now, I tell you—nor all that glorious armor:
now, somewhere under our floods that gear will sink,
immersed deep in slime, and I, I'll roil his body
round in sand and gravel, tons of spills of silt.

And you, you make for the Xanthus banks and burn the trees,
hurl the stream itself into conflagration

Never abate your fury! Not till I let loose my shout—
then halt your withering fire!

He stopped—overwhelmed
by the torrid blast of the Master Craftsman god of fire

He stopped—overwhelmed
by the torrid blast of the Master Craftsman god of fire—
and Xanthus cried to Hera, pouring out his heart
in a flood of supplication, "Oh Hera—why?
Why does your son attack me, whip my waters more
than all the others? Why, what have I done to you?..."

Down she sank with Ares, resistance quite dissolved,
two immortals spread on the earth that rears us all
with Pallas trumpeting over them winged exultations

Down you go! May all the gods who help the Trojans
fall as hard when they battle Argives armed for war—
all as courageous, all as steadfast as Aphrodite
when she sped to Ares' side and faced my fury!

So we made our way back home, hearts smoldering,
furious for the sum he swore but never paid

No joining ranks with us as we fight to wipe them out,
these insolent Trojans, stretch them out in the dust
with all their sons and all their honored wives!

God of the earthquake—you'd think me hardly sane
if I fought with you for the sake of wretched mortals...
like leaves, no sooner flourishing, full of the sun's fire,
feeding on earth's gifts, than they waste away and die.

But his sister Artemis, Huntress, queen of beasts,
inveighed against him now with stinging insults

Not a word in reply to that from the Archer-god
but Zeus's regal consort flew into rage at once

Filled with resolve, he braced, waiting Achilles,
his warrior blood incensed.

But all the while the rest of the Trojans fled en masse,
thrilled to reach the ramparts, crowding, swarming in,
no daring left to remain outside the city walls
and wait for each other, learn who made it through,
who died in battle—no, in a driving rout they came,
streaming into Troy